


Learn To Love Without Consuming

by ouroboros_the_ninth



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Established Relationship, Eventual Sex, F/F, Fluff, Gideon is never forced to use a rapier again, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Sharing a Bed, Sword duels, handwaving at god-science and some lyctorhood stuff because i'm not tamsyn, mild political intrigue, they go to a ball, they're both bad at feelings but they're learning together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26728627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouroboros_the_ninth/pseuds/ouroboros_the_ninth
Summary: God is dead--his war and his power structures gone with him. The Ninth's tomb sits empty and nothing is certain. The Nine Houses, perturbed, look to each other in question.-Gideon and Harrow struggle to find the Ninth's new place in the world after the fall of the Emperor and the death of Alecto--all the while fumbling with the scarred landscape of their bond, their past, and their own beloved demons.
Relationships: Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

"God is dead," Harrow said, trembling, breathless and triumphant, "and we killed him." 

Next to her, in the dusty ruins of what was once the dim main hall of Castle Drearburh, Gideon sighed into a tired chuckle. Their face paint was more or less gone under all the blood and sweat. "Technically, we helped your popsicle girlfriend kill him," she said, "and now they're both-" She made a rough cutting gesture with her fingers pointed at her own throat. When Harrow winced, she cringed apologetically. The battle of their lives had ended only a few minutes ago, after all. 

Alecto, having been freed from her tomb, quickly explained all of the Emperor’s lies before setting to work. She expended most of her power reserve revitalizing the remaining beasts and setting them to rest, then briefly laid out the Emperor’s demise. Hilariously, this only took about a month following Gideon’s resurrection--which she also had a part in--making John look like an absolute wimp and an ass. She spoke in strange riddles and clipped sentences, but Harrow connected the dots.

As Alecto was John’s wellspring of power, the dwindling of her strength meant the dwindling of his, though not entirely proportional given that he was not a resurrection beast of ten billion souls. They were less god-like when they finally graced their final battleground within the Ninth’s nave. Too many minutes passed in quiet conversation, then shouting, then fighting. When Alecto glanced over her shoulder, those golden eyes gleaming in the gloom, Gideon and Harrow knew what to do. A heartbeat later and John was skewered on the end of Gideon’s blade, Alecto on the fine point of a length of bone. Alecto used her last breath to do them both in--laughing through the bloodied silence--and John used his to curse through gnashing teeth. They quickly dissolved into a strange, crystalline powder afterward, which then dissolved into nothing. Harrow cried, Harrow gasped and retched--but the tears were gone as quickly as they had come.

It was a little anticlimactic, if Gideon was being completely honest. She had at least expected an explosion of innards, like that one time Mercymorn had tried to kill John, or just a regular explosion, or- "Right. Too soon." And she fell back into the cold, ashen dust. The already faint light of Dominicus coming down the main shaft and through the shattered stone was growing fainter by the minute.

After a quiet moment, Harrow eased down beside her, close enough to touch, and let out a long breath. "Griddle…" Gideon hummed in acknowledgement. "What the fuck do we do now?" 

Gideon laughed again, turning to look into those familiar black eyes, and shrugged. "We order some filthy mags and go on a road-trip? Settle down on some nearby planet that's hopefully a little warmer and a little greener?" When Harrow frowned, she reached out to gently wrap her fingers around her bony wrist. "Hey it's okay, your pervy secret's safe with me. I know you read them too." 

"You are the biggest ass in the universe."

"I'll take that as a compliment." 

A little way off, Camilla and the others got to their feet and began making their way over, steps heavy and echoing off the black stone. Coronabeth looked like she'd been mauled, limping shoulder to shoulder with Ianthe--who, Gideon wanted to remind everyone, had only chosen to betray John about a month ago. Harrow brought Gideon back exactly four months and seven days ago--yes she was counting; you sort of learn to value your time after dying twice and going through spirit-limbo with your necromancer bestie--girlfriend?--before getting resurrected like a hero in a prophecy.

She made a mental note to talk to Harrow about the girlfriend thing, later. 

Harrow had kissed Gideon’s forehead, nose, cheek, jaw--all the while crying--when she woke up in her newly restored body, shivering to life in a sunny patch of grass after their souls were carefully unmixed, but Gideon was a little too dazed and naked to comment on it. Afterwards, Harrow insisted that they share a bed "for safety” and clung to Gideon whenever possible as though the touch of her skin would ensure they’re never separated again.

"The sun hasn't blown up and we're all alive, so I suppose Alecto’s methods held fast," Ianthe said. She leaned up to slouch against a slightly less annihilated wall and Coronabeth hissed in pain. Beyond the shattered archways of the broken old facade, Deuteros stumbled into view. She said nothing as she stopped next to Camilla and the peacefully unconscious Palamedes, forcefully straightening her back into a rigid line despite the red wound at her side.

Harrow shakily sat up and Gideon followed, laying a hand on her back. "Nothing will be the same after this," she said, as if this needed to be said. Then she stopped and chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, turning words over in her mouth. She’d always been great at talking high and mighty or barking orders, but speeches were never her thing. Gideon drew a little circle on her spine with her palm. "For now, we should tend to our individual houses and mend our wounds--call to Blood of Eden with the news and attempt to reach an understanding through our contacts. Hopefully, we can convene once the dust is settled and properly discuss the matter--bring the Fourth, Fifth, Seventh and Eighth into the loop. The Nine will be transformed, changed in the process, but it will be for the better. Gideon and I will remain here and mend what's been destroyed of the Ninth, for now, and expect to be kept up to date on any developments." She looked to Camilla, mouth open to speak further, but the cavalier was already nodding.

"I'll inform the organization of everything. Palamedes and I will help take care of any wounded." Her eyes gleamed with a determination nearly powerful enough to bite through the exhaustion on her face. "Once we're done here, we’ll head back to the Sixth." 

"The Third isn't itching for us to return," Ianthe sighed. "We'll stay and help here for a while." 

Oh, hell no. One look at Princess Creepazoid--who was still making bedroom eyes at Harrowhark, by the way--and Gideon was ready to kick her ass right back to the planet she came from. Violet eyes stared lazily as their gazes met. Ianthe had almost refused any offers of reversal, of resurrection, stating that Tern was a pompous asshole to begin with and might as well be good for something. This wasn't entirely disagreeable, but was still incredibly grim. The only thing that tipped the scales was Coronabeth’s presence in the room at the time, apparently. She’d said something--no one had heard what--and Ianthe immediately agreed to the resurrection. His soul was in such tatters given her clumsy execution of the consumption process, that the whole thing fell through; they couldn’t bring him back. Neither twin seemed all that bothered by this, though. "I'd much prefer if it you left us the fuck alone, actually," Gideon finally said. If she was going to be stuck on this grey blob of a planet for any further length of time, she was going to do it in comfortable privacy with Harrow and absolutely no horny space-murderers with tacky golden bone arms.

To her surprise, Harrow didn't scold her for the remark, instead leaning back into Gideon's supportive hand and slouching towards her. They weren't touching a single damned brick--or bone--until they washed the bloody filth off themselves and got some well-earned sleep.

Coronabeth looked marginally more disappointed than Ianthe, who usually had trouble expressing any emotion past bloodthirst anyway. "Oh, it's alright. We understand, don't we, Ianthe? Let's go home and get cleaned up. I'm sure everyone will be delighted to see us, really." Breathy and bubbly as usual, despite everything. She'd changed like night and day since Canaan House, if the gleaming rapier at her side was any indication, but that voice was the one thing that stayed the same. It hadn't hardened like the rest of her.

Gideon found no charm in it anymore, though. 

"Convincing the Second to cooperate will not be easy." Deuteros's stiff voice rang just as formal and crisp as ever. "Our loyalty to the Nine Houses hasn't wavered all the myriad and we've opposed Blood of Eden for as long as they've existed." She paused, eyes skimming the ragtag band of mutineers that had just killed the King Undying--making him quite _dead_ , really. "But I suppose--given my own account and your support--that they may be swayed. I'll be on my way back as soon as possible." An expression pulled at the corners of her eyes and the space between her dark brows as she tipped her head up to look at the porridgey Ninth sky. It was a look that very clearly said _I wish Dyas were here to see this_ and Gideon turned her gaze away out of respect. 

Dyas's soul was gone, across the river and to whatever waited for her next. Harrow had explained when everyone reunited all those months ago, sitting in a stuffy apartment living room with the curtains drawn. What happened in Harrow's River bubble sounded nothing short of a legend, and it filled Gideon with a deep sense of aching, painful pride. She didn't think Ortus had that sort of fight in him, the sad bone-mule. And there he'd apparently been, calling forth an ancient Ninth hero to save the day and defeat a vengeful ghost. For the Ninth, if not in life then eternally in death.

Gideon tried not to think about the fact that said ghost was her mother--who had also apparently been a horrible, terrible, bad-all-around person and was perfectly ready to commit infanticide. She wished instead that she could have met the real Dulcinea, the real Protelisaus. It would have been nice to say goodbye to Magnus and Abigail. She would have liked to apologize to Jeannemary and Isaac.

As the adrenaline wore off and the cold seeped through their torn clothes, everyone sluggishly got to their feet and headed to the living quarters to gather themselves and get shuttles arranged. Then they slowly filed into the Ninth's cramped medical wing, with its dusty cots and few old, arthritic nurses. Most of the actual first aid was left up to the combined efforts of Camilla and Palamedes--when he finally woke up, an hour and a half after the evening bell. 

Aiglamene and Crux stayed mostly out of the way at Harrow's insistent orders. There was nothing they could contribute save for lugging people's belongings and giving directions, which neither of them enjoyed doing. They'd been ordered by the Reverend Daughter to remain at the outskirts of the earlier conflict to avoid getting caught in the massive power struggle. As a result, they were mostly unharmed save for a few shallow cuts and bruises. Gideon hated Crux with every fibre of her being and looked forward to Harrow turning him into a particularly ugly leather footrest, but she was quietly glad that Aiglamene was alright.

By the time everyone was gathered on the upper landing plateau, it was well past midnight and positively frigid. The only thing keeping everyone warm was the excruciating climb up thirty sets of slippery stairs. Gideon watched the shuttles land--watched everyone board and kept Crux in the corner of her eye to make sure the old garbage bag didn't try to blow anyone else up. 

Camilla stepped in front of her and Harrow, bowing with a small smile on her lips. Palamedes walked past her and pulled both Niners into a tight hug, his glasses falling askew. They'd gotten used to this by now, so it came as no surprise. The man was a sap, and a welcome one. He had a right to be--his resurrection took place only a week after Gideon's. "Hopefully, we can all get in touch soon and meet up for a formal dinner or something. Maybe with less blood and gore." His friendly smile was enough to light up a room.

Harrow nodded, leaning into Gideon and lacing their fingers together in the thick, long sleeve of her robe. Her palm was warm, as usual, and her thin fingers gripped with a tired gentleness. "We'll be there." She smiled the world's smallest, hardest to notice smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Camilla tugged her shiny-eyed necro back towards the shuttle before he could embarrass himself with an emotional speech and, with a small two-fingered wave, bade a silent farewell. This wouldn’t be the last time they’d all be seeing each other. Best to keep things brief, in true Cam fashion.

The hatch door closed and the shuttle took off after the rest, much like a flock of metal and plex birds migrating if not for the noise. Wordless, Harrow gently tugged on Gideon's fingers and led her back towards the living quarters. Silence stretched comfortably between them. They stepped through the dim, sleepy halls and stopped at the door to Gideon's old room, seemingly undisturbed since she left. 

"Uh… Mind telling me what we're doing here?" 

"We're here to pick up your things," Harrow said. The words were quiet, almost embarrassed, and only became more so as she continued. "I'd like you to move to my quarters--if that's alright with you." She was averting her eyes and looked like she was trying her best not to turn tail and run off. It was sort of sweet, despite the furrow in her brow.

Alright, it was extremely sweet. But Gideon figured she shouldn’t vocalize it lest the shadowy Reverend Daughter threaten to tie her esophagus into a tidy little knot. Lovingly, of course. 

"We've been sleeping in the same bed for four months, Nonagesimus." Gideon gave her hand a casual squeeze. They'd been holding hands a lot, too--another thing she needed to include in the Are We Girlfriends talk. "Before that, I lived inside you--still not saying anything--for a year. We also slept in the same room at Canaan House for a night. Oh, do you remember that one time when we were kids and I passed out under your bed while I was waiting to scare the shit out of you-"

“You’ve made your point, Griddle.” There was only the smallest trace of frustration in the words when she continued: "Now, grab your pillow and your spare clothes so we can go shower and pass the fuck out." 

Gideon did just that. 

*** 

The bedroom Harrow occupied was larger than Gideon's, but not nearly as spacious as it had felt in childhood. There was room enough for a simple queen size bed with modest navy sheets set against the far wall, a couple of small bedside tables, a closet, a dresser, an absolutely packed bookshelf and a door to a simple private bathroom. The lights were dim and warm here, resembling gentle candlelight and nothing like the artificial pale green most other rooms were awash in. It was comforting and cozy, in all its dreary Ninth. Still smelled like ash and sadness, though. Maybe she could tuck Harrow into ordering some air fresheners.

Gideon plopped her belongings down at the foot of the bed, grabbed her sleep clothes and walked straight to the black-tiled bathroom. She didn't bother to close the door--they'd seen each other naked anyway--already out of her boots and halfway out of her bloody robe. She was beyond ready to hop in the sonic and scrape all the sweaty grime off her skin. Harrow's voice could be heard, muffled, as she slid the semi-opaque plex shut: "Guess I'll go second, then. Cool." 

Not that it was a long wait. It was called a sonic for a reason. One could even brush their teeth in one, needing only bring said brush. With Gideon using soap gel--conveniently smuggled off the crew ship that dropped them off here--it only took a whopping five minutes for her to scrub completely clean and fresh. She stepped out smelling faintly of something leafy and sweet, perhaps like one of the flowers she encountered on the planet where she was resurrected. That place was extraordinary. Buildings, people, excitement, animals, trees, sausages and sweets. Changing seasons. The warmth of sunlight. They had met a cat there, once, during a late night walk through a flowery neighborhood. It was a young little thing, and it purred loudly as Gideon scooped it up into her arms. She couldn't convince Harrow to let her keep it, though. Probably for the best--for now.

Harrow was brushing past her and sweeping into the bathroom like a wraith before she could even say "it's yours," so she opted to slip into bed and get comfortable. The sheets were slightly greasy with the dust of neglect, but it wasn't anything she couldn't shake out (which she did). Simply flipping the old grey pillows would have to do until they could get a change of bedding. With this done, Gideon sat back and tried not to fall asleep before her ever faithful necromancer returned.

A few minutes later, the sonic whirred to a stop and Harrow stepped out of the bathroom in her typical black nightdress. She flicked the lights off on her way over, leaving only the lone little reading lamps set into the wall on either side of the headboard. They barely provided enough light to read by at all, which Gideon found ironic.

"Hey," she said, her voice dropping to a sleepy hush. "Ready to snooze, my umbral queen?" 

Harrow crawled into bed next to her, seeming terribly small and fragile despite the miniscule amount of muscle she'd managed to pack on over the past year. She always looked so soft and vulnerable without all the bones, robes, and grease paint on. At night like this, when they were alone, she stopped being anything but Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Gideon stopped being anything but Gideon Nav. 

They slid to lay against the pillows and pulled the sheets up to their shoulders after Gideon flicked the lamps off, locking out the signature Ninth chill with their shared body heat. The vents were creaking, straining hard, but they never made The Ninth a warm or welcome place. Harrow immediately assumed her usual position: curled up with her head on Gideon's chest and her limbs slung over her in a loose embrace. They mixed it up sometimes--Gideon spooning Harrow, which was great, and Harrow spooning Gideon, which was also great--but this seemed to be her favorite. Their bodies tangled up in each other and did not let go.

Harrow pressed her lips to the space just under Gideon's clavicle, and Gideon returned it by kissing the top of her head through a contented sigh, rubbing small circles into her lower back. She idly traced the pads of her fingers across each rib of the woman underneath her, almost seeming to count them the way one would count imaginary sheep. They were both drifting off fast, sinking into the sheets. Gideon never thought she could feel this at home in a place she hated so deeply her entire life. But it wasn't about the Ninth, was it? Everything always circled back to Harrowhark Nonagesimus. She could make Gideon feel at home sleeping in a damp cave--which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off from an accurate description of their current residence.

So much had changed since Canaan House. In the velvety, soft dark, Harrow whispered. "Griddle?" 

“Hm?”

"I’m not ordering you any more skin mags.”

Gideon snorted, pinching Harrow’s side. “Whatever you say, honey.”

The last thing she heard before she fell into the blissful oblivion of sleep was an embarrassing noise slipping out of Harrow’s throat at the term of endearment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hmmm.... yearning.

When the First Bell rang, Gideon grumbled and reached out blindly in the dark for the boney heat that was carefully attempting to escape her grip. She earned a small yelp as she yanked Harrow back against her front and nuzzled into her neck, pressing her maxilla into one of the few soft parts of her body. "Absolutely not. We deserve at least eight hours." Her voice was scratchy with sleep. 

In her arms, only half heartedly struggling now, Harrow sighed and listened as the old, repetitive BLA-BLANG of the bell eased to a rattling stop. "We need to get up. People are expecting me to guide them." 

Gideon basked in the languid lilt of the girl's usually commanding voice, the feeling of her relaxing against her front if even for a moment. "Hmm… No. I'm sure one of the creaky old nuns has it handled. Aiglamene-"

"Is probably on her way to my door as we speak." 

This gave Gideon pause. She wasn’t keen on the idea of the guard walking in on them or making any comments. Her experience also taught her better, considering the one instance when she was sixteen and had slept through the bell. Aiglamene had burst into her cell without bothering to allow her to dress, yanked her out of bed and onto the floor, and dumped a bucket of snow onto her bare back. It woke her up, if one thing’s for certain. The bruise from her security cuff slamming into her ankle at the impact had left her walking funny for a few days.

She groaned and reluctantly rolled out of bed, flipping the lights on as she padded to the bathroom to splash water on her face and brush her teeth. Harrow very clearly tried to appear busy pulling her trousers on, but they had been playing this game for months and Gideon knew she was watching her as she passed--knew Harrow basked in the flex and pull of her muscles where her bandeau and underwear left the skin exposed, quietly appreciative and fascinated. She took it as a high compliment, considering Harrow's reputation with bones and tomb bodies.

It brought her back to that night at Canaan House, in the Response room. Harrow had _felt_ her, soaked in every twist, leap, strike and roll; Harrow had lived inside Gideon, if even for a microcosmic instant, in the red heat of her frantic heart and the dizzying neuron flashes. The look in her eyes was unforgettable--electric with admiration and awe. It was strange, back then, to see her so alive. The praise rolling off her usually biting tongue had thrown Gideon into orbit--sparking the corners of her vision and pulling all the blood away from her face. Now, Harrow’s looks and words only made her heart swell, or occasionally dragged all the drained blood from her face and let it pool somewhere a little lower--which she _aggressively_ ignored. She wasn’t even certain that Harrow wanted her that way to begin with, despite everything, which is why she waited so desperately for the right time to talk things through. Their relationship had never been simple.

A couple of short minutes later, they were both fully dressed and standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Harrow applied her paint like a second skin and then turned to apply Gideon's for her. It was a ritual they'd grown into under the excuse that Gideon always did a piss poor job of it, but they both knew that was a convenient lie. Worship--that was what it really was. This was their morning prayer, their silent ode, their contemplation. 

Harrow dipped the fibre wadding in paint and reached up to cup Gideon's jaw. Harrow focused carefully on her work--the ashy white rolling across her cavalier's stubborn features, the blots and lines of black that blessed her full lips, capped her straight nose, carved the void between the mandible and maxilla down to the line of her jaw. Then came her eyes, and Gideon closed them contentedly as Harrow pressed the paint in around them, framing them in cavernous dark. When she was done, they both stood still for a moment. Gideon let her admire her art, the love poem written in the slopes of her face, before she slowly opened her eyes again. They were met with a ring of deep, burning obsidian, an ardent fire so familiar and wild. The pupils were blown and glassy. 

A little too blown. She realized quickly that Harrow was close enough for her breath to tickle her face, hand still on Gideon but having slid slowly lower onto her neck. Her fingers pressed delightfully, thumb rubbing nervous, unconscious shapes into the now pounding pulse underneath it. She had a strange look about her, one Gideon hadn't encountered before. It was soft and almost nervous, teetering on the edge of something, mouth slightly parted and--holy hell, Harrow was staring at her lips. _Breathe,_ she thought to herself. Her mind rushed mercilessly, flushed her skin red under the death's head she wore as she reached out to rest her hands on Harrow’s hips, furtive in their lack of pressure. She gave up on attempting to control her heartbeat, to stop her stuttering breath, and let her eyes drop to the delicate bow of Harrow’s mouth. The world narrowed around them. What were they doing?

“Gideon?” Harrow whispered, tense, a string about to snap. She wasn’t moving, she was as still as stone--like all those thousands of years ago, sitting wet and wide-eyed by the salt pool before they both died in different ways. 

Back then, Gideon had every intention of kissing her. She had held her breath, quelled her nerves, pulled herself so terribly close to Harrow. She’d thought to herself, appropriately in hindsight, _I’ll die if I don’t do this right now._ But then Harrow choked out her last name in a startled breath and Gideon remembered the body in the tomb, remembered the way Harrow spoke of the sleeping omen--and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t feed her heart the false hope of being loved by this woman who wreathed herself in black and gave her heart to a corpse. It hurt deep in her chest when she opened her mouth to speak instead of pressing it to Harrow’s.

But that was a myriad ago and this was now. Harrow proved how much more Gideon meant to her with every wave and gesture, every step along the way ever since that horribly sunny day on the First garden terrace. She butchered herself, buried the Reverend Daughter in a coffin and attempted to throw away the key--all in a desperate attempt to _save_ Gideon, to prevent herself from utterly consuming her and rending her down to a muscle memory. When they emerged from the River into the arms of Camilla Hect and realized they shared Harrow’s body--actually shared it, this time--they both subconsciously allowed each other’s habits. Gideon devoured strong-tasting foods and took pleasure in the rhythmic burn of working muscle, and Harrow studied bone when she wasn’t studying the planet’s prismatic sunset. They both read abhorrent magazines from the corner store, and when they touched themselves--which Gideon couldn’t think of without squeezing her eyes shut to will away the flip in her stomach--they both felt it. The line had blurred between them, melted them into an exquisite marbling. Their thoughts overlapped, echoed off of each other--Gideon, Harrow, Gideon, Harrow. The memories felt like they were from another lifetime, as though the two of them melded were not merely themselves but something entirely new and cosmic.

Perhaps… Under all the ice of their hearts… There was a chance--

This time, Gideon leaned forward.

“My lady, it’s well past the bell. We’ve got a lot to do.” Aiglamene’s voice cut through the door as though it were nothing, voice damnably firm and unwelcome. Harrow’s breath hitched and she blinked, furrowed her brows almost imperceptibly before finally leaning away. Gideon pulled her hands away and mourned, her throat working as she cursed internally. A knock at the door this time. “Are you alright? Do I need to come in?” 

Harrow, hearing this, startled into action and disappeared into the other room. Gideon instinctively followed her a half step behind, busying her trembling hands with adjusting the scabbard on her back as though it needed adjusting to begin with. “I assure you I haven’t been smothered in my sleep, Aiglamene,” the necromancer said as they slipped through the door into the sickly lit hallway. “Ring a muster call before the Secondarius bell, the sooner the better. We have a lot to cover moving forward.” 

Aiglamene nodded with a grunt as she sea-sawed along, accustomed to keeping pace with the Reverend Daughter’s quick, purposeful steps. She glanced sidelong at Gideon, those eyes as stolid as ever and not betraying a single thing. It wasn’t difficult to hone in on what she must have been thinking, though; Harrow didn’t walk out of her bedroom alone. Gideon took a moment to bask in the fact, made especially sweet by Aiglamene’s quiet judgement, and did not suppress her stupid grin. Gideon - 1, Aiglamene - 0.

After dishing out the order to ring muster, the three gathered on the long bench within the mostly untouched apse of Castle Drearburh and waited, wordless. There was no warbling choir this time, no luminescent dust, and it smelled of burnt bone. Not too long after the bell began to clang--distinctly different from the idea of a _ring_ \--skeletons began to pour through the ruins to stand among the splintered pews, followed by the slouched and shivering figures of the Ninth’s scant other occupants. Crux lumbered in, unchanged by the two years since he dragged Gideon in to listen to the Emperor's suck-up call for Lyctors. He stopped in the front row--or what would have been the front row, underneath all the destruction--and stared unblinkingly ahead. 

When the long channel of the church's main body seemed sufficiently filled with bone and the fewer short-cropped heads of the Ninth devout, Harrow cleared her throat to silence the whispering rattle and pull everyone's attention. "I'm sure you've noticed that a hole has been blown into the rock and that Drearburh now stands as a shadow of its former self. If word has not reached you, I will deliver it onto you now: the Emperor is dead and the tomb lies empty." At this, gasps hissed throughout the vast chamber like the sound of air escaping a tire. One person broke into a loud sob and the man next to them began frantically counting his prayer beads. A nun with a particularly haggard cough clutched at her chest as though she was suffering a heart attack, but did not keel over. Those who already knew by means of being fortunate enough to witness the events simply looked on in weary-eyed aimlessness. Gideon was surprised that this time, no one died of shock. 

Harrow shifted slightly on her feet where she stood, lips pressed into a line, and continued. "The Lord and Lady are also gone. Everything will be explained in writing, as you deserve to know the truth of the King Undying and his myriad of treachery. We have entered a new age, and must establish ourselves with dignity and purpose within this new order. I will-” She glanced at Gideon, then, who stood a breath behind her. “We will ensure that this house finds a home, whatever that may mean. You needn’t change much about your lives, save the fact that all worship of the Emperor will cease. Castle Drearburh will be left as is, for now.” She paused, as if expecting one of the withering elderly to protest, but all that filled the silence was the now muffled crying and the occasional wheeze. In the far corner, a skeleton rattled as a few of its distal phalanges fell off.

Gideon was reminded of how dead this place really was, its occupants barely more than walking corpses in a cave. A nagging part of her wondered what the point was in attempting to save it at all--wanted to sweep Harrow away to somewhere beautiful and warm and _alive,_ never looking back _\--_ but the rest of her understood too well why the Reverend Daughter needed to do this. 

It was a matter of blood debt. 

The coffins sitting in her chest, as Harrow was wont to say, sweaty and trembling in bed after her nightmares startled her awake. The first time it happened, Gideon swore she’d always be there to hold her. “I’ve got you,” she’d said, “I’ve got you,” until Harrow’s tears put her back to sleep. She always felt so fragile in her arms.

Harrow concluded the gathering by explaining that for all intents and purposes, she was the head of the house, and that any absence on her part should not raise alarm. Once dismissed, the dismal population of the Ninth poured out of the ruins with the speed of a thick black sap, and Gideon hopped down the steps of the apse.

“I’m fucking starving,” she said. 

Harrow scoffed. “I figured. We should go get something.”

“You make it sound like we have such a wealth of options.” Gideon cringed, then cleared her throat and straightened her back into the impression of a waiter at a snooty Third establishment--what she imagined that would be like, at least. “What will it be tonight, my lady: the grey protein paste or the grey protein stew? Mushy or goopy?” Harrow rolled her eyes.

Aiglamene limped up from behind them, eyes dead set on the far end of the nave. Crux stood there expectantly, stick-up-his-ass stiff as ever. “Is there anything specific you have in mind for him, my lady?” 

Harrow played with a few knuckle bones between the tips of her fingers, twirling them between the digits in a little dance. It was a nervous habit Gideon used to hate. “No. I trust you.” And with that, the captain of the guard set off towards the old brute, hellbent on a mission she was delighted to set the terms for. 

Later, over a lukewarm dinner of tasteless stew and vitamin supplements in a cramped corner of the kitchen, Gideon learned that Crux was doomed part-time to drudging in the oss for as long as Aiglamene saw fit for the crime. He was also, from that point moving forward, forbidden from approaching within ten meters of any shuttle not reserved for him. 

Fine, no ugly leather Crux footrest.

*** 

Four more days passed in a blur. When Gideon wasn’t flipping through a magazine or watching Harrow do paperwork next to the central comms, she exercised until her chest burned with exertion and her muscles ached to rest. There was no tender repeat of the first morning, no girlfriend talk. In the end, she concluded that the right moment would not come because it _couldn’t--_ not in a place as deeply unromantic and downright depressing as the Ninth, and not especially while Harrow was working herself to death in correspondence with the other Houses.

She was within an inch of begging Harrow to take a trip with her, anywhere but this heartless hole, when the necromancer bolted upright in her chair and ducked out of the room to mumble something to Aiglamene. When the guard returned half an hour later, she handed Harrow a flimsy envelope and took position next to the door.

Harrow said simply, “This is it,” and Gideon was very confused as she ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter within. It was marked with the stamp of the Third, a deep and shimmering purple. She read its contents over, then summarized. “The Third has invited us to the first decennial House Gathering, after we all agreed it’d be best if they hosted." 

"The first _what?_ " Gideon slung her legs over an armrest on the creaky old chair she lounged in, worrying a thread loose from the cushion beneath her. 

Harrow observed her over the top of the letter and squinted at her posture before sitting down in the high-backed chair by her desk, flipping a switch on the communications console behind her to silence its crackling static buzz. "It's a formal event that will take place every ten years, starting in three months when the first will be held. All the Lords and Ladies agreed to it. Its purpose is to bring the houses together, to maintain strong interpersonal bonds among them, and to celebrate the new era." 

Gideon nodded. "Alright, sounds _delightful._ What does it actually entail, bone mistress?" 

At this, Harrow stiffened. Did she look worried? Embarrassed? She mumbled, “Two weeks spent in a manor of the Third, filled with festivities, social games and ritual--and a ball, apparently. It’s one painfully long party.” 

To Gideon, who had never attended a party in her life--unless you counted funerals or the bittersweet dinner that Magnus and Abigail threw back at Canaan House before everything went to shit--this sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime--or a few, considering her track record with dying. She leapt out of her chair and swept across the room in three wide steps, dropping to a knee in front of Harrow and clasping her hands together in a prayer tight enough to turn her knuckles white. “Please. We have to go. I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll polish your bone collection for you.” 

Harrow’s eyes widened in befuddled disgust and she nudged Gideon’s shin with her boot. “For the love of everything unholy, Griddle, get up. We don’t exactly have a choice. Not attending would be foolish.” Gideon relaxed. “It’s your manners we have to worry about--your manners and the way you dress yourself like you don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of you so long as they can see you flex. The next three months are going to be hell.” Gideon tensed. Good things never came without a catch, not to her. 

“You’re going to stuff me in a suit and make me take dance lessons, aren’t you?” She sounded utterly betrayed. “You’re going to strap me to a chair until I can tell you the difference between a soup spoon and a salad spoon.”

“Salad spoon?”

“Kiss my ass.”

If not for the gloom, Gideon would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile on those chapped, painted lips. She had a lot of those--small almost-smiles--but the wide, toothy, beautiful ones were rare. Gideon could count how many times she’d seen them on one hand. Once at Canaan House, once after her resurrection, once in their sweaty apartment when she’d told a joke that Harrow took a surprising liking to, and once--briefly, there and gone--when their eyes met over Drearburh’s battlefield.

Harrow slipped the invitation into her robe and rose from her seat. “You can begin your formal training tomorrow. I’ll make arrangements for us to obtain formal vestments--I’ve been informed that our usual attire is… Slightly inadequate for the occasion, at least according to Ianthe.”

Before Gideon could cut in with _“Vestments? I’m not wearing church robes on vacation,”_ Aiglamene cleared her throat. “Actually my lady, speaking freely, I believe you would stand to benefit from classes as well. If anything, a refresher might be in order.” Her bone leg rattled as she shifted her weight. “And I’m not exactly fit to teach dance, anyway, so you two will have to pair up instead.” Great, Gideon thought, aptly ignoring the flip in her stomach. She would get to spend the next three months reading etiquette manuals and stumbling around the formal dining hall in an effort to not royally crush her necromancer’s toes or piss off her old teacher.

Next to her, Harrow let out a small, sharp sigh, its cutting edge tempered by something unspoken. After a moment, she nodded stiffly. "Your judgment does not fail. I’ll take the lessons."

Gideon was pretty sure she had never seen the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Saviour of the Ninth, give into anything so willingly, so readily, before--especially when her skill at something was brought into question. She could not meet her eyes to decipher the encrypted justification, to yank whatever she was hiding out of her chest, because Harrow pulled her hood over her dead-crow little head and did not speak much for the rest of the evening.

***

As it turned out, their first order of business was teaching Gideon how to eat within a formal setting. She thought the way she ate was perfectly fine, but her opinion wasn't exactly within consideration. 

The lessons would have bordered on fun if they involved actual food and not Aiglamene prompting her to _imagine_ there was a steak in front of her. Every time she picked up the wrong utensil for a specific use, her knuckles received a swift _thwap_ from one of the captain's insulated pleather gloves, followed by her rigid explanations and references to the books Gideon was refusing to read. The impact did not hurt seeing as the material was so light, but it was annoying as all hell and that’s what really mattered.

Sitting next to her at these thrice weekly torture sessions, she was delighted to notice that, for a time, Harrow was nearly as lost as her when it came to the more advanced and pretentious formalities of something so simple. The necromancer grit her teeth each time she caught herself in a mistake and they complained to each other against their pillows each night. This turned into a topic of conversation--the question of posh habits prompting their shared mockery in contrast to the barren, humble Ninth lifestyle. They were given something to talk about that wasn’t the day-to-day drudgery of living in a place where death of all things thrived. It was strange in a way, to feel so young as they whispered through the liquid lack of light before sleep, like they were experiencing something they’d missed out on before they were forced to wisen by what felt like a thousand years of pain.

A month passed and when Aiglamene seemed satisfied with everything she’d drilled into their heads, she told Gideon to push all the furniture aside in the dining room. The result was a cavernous, oblong space, too cold for comfort and stuffy with dust. Even with the electric chandelier on, it was dim and unwelcoming, the light that poured down on her a coldhearted yellow-green. The floor was a black stone tile, cut into smooth hexagons by fine white lines, and the walls were a decorated, bluish grey, terrifically boring and simple save for the uniform accents of bone around the large double doors and the tall ceiling. In the middle of the rightmost wall upon entering, parallel to the table, was a very large and very old painting. In it, a fair-haired woman stretched out upon a sea of ivory white bones, asleep and draped in a sheer white cloth. The skeletons around her, some complete and some partial, gave the impression of keeping her afloat; If one squinted, they looked like crumpled bed sheets. Behind her--hanging above the horizon like an ever-watching eye--the light of Dominicus shone in a swathe of fiery golds. 

Gideon refused to think much of the thing.

The doors creaked sadly as Harrow and Aiglamene entered. The necromancer shook off her robes in a whisper of fabric--leaving her looking scrawny and small--and draped them on the dining table while the guard captain procured a small, strange object. It was a narrow little black box with a mesh front and a silvery button on top. She then reached into a bag she’d slung over her shoulder and pulled out two inhumanely thick tomes. They echoed with a tooth-shattering BOOM as they were dropped on the table. “You’ll be practicing to the rhythm set by a metronome. These illustrated guides contain all the technical knowledge you’ll need outside of my instruction,” Aiglamene said. She then leaned slightly upon the table behind her and gestured with her calloused palm. “Assume starting position for the dance we discussed last week--the one you read about,” then, more gently, “my lady, if you please.” 

Gideon rolled her neck and met Harrow in the middle of the room, their boots loud against the stone. 

She looked at that knife of a face, the unlovely razor curve of her jaw as they both bowed stiffly--and she suddenly felt terribly out of her depth. Not because she hadn’t done the reading--she had done it, for once in her life--but because she was suddenly acutely aware of each minute movement her body made, and all she could think about was _how fucking stupid this whole thing was._

Her hands felt like lead feather weights as she brought them up, one to hold Harrow’s cold hand and one to- “Are you going to take that damn bone armor off?”

The glare she met was scornful enough to melt steel. “Absolutely not.” 

Fair enough. Didn’t know what she’d expected. She laid her palm flat against Harrow’s back, just short of her shoulder blade, the ridges of her exoskeleton pressing into her skin, and let out a breath as Harrow placed her left hand on her shoulder. In the silence, a regular _tick-tick-tick-tick_ began, slow and steady, barely audible. They waited on their instructor’s cue, which came a second later as a hollow snap, and they took their first steps together. 

They were awkward and unnatural, the motions quickly turning into a stutter as they fell out of sync. What Gideon had envisioned as an elegant twirl--described exactly as such in the stupid old manual she was forced to cram her brain with--was in fact, more alike to two clumsy deer trying to navigate a patch of ice together. It was a strange commotion of joints and limbs that saw both their feet bruised, until Harrow tightened her grip on Gideon’s hand and stopped abruptly. The ticking stopped with them. Gideon could see the muscles jumping in Harrow’s jaw, the furrow between her brows hiding behind a thin layer of chapped paint. 

"This isn't going to work,” she said through her teeth.

"Yeah, no shit." Gideon sighed and moved to pull away, but Harrow didn't budge. 

"Your footwork is barely passable, but you're not working together. You're moving independently and expecting the other to read your mind and adjust. Go again, but slower. I haven’t danced in thirty years and I’m sure I could do it better than you with my bad leg--meaning no disrespect to you personally, my lady." Aiglamene's criticism was as sharp and merciless as ever. She stepped up and jabbed her hand into Gideon’s lower back, kicked her feet into position, then did the same to Harrow with noticeably less chopping motion. Then she returned to her post, set the ticking going again, and bade them try again.

This agony continued for another month, until Gideon felt she could waltz in her sleep. 

Her dreams filled with the usual--strange and nonsensical scenarios, sword fights with no impact, the vague silhouettes of people she once knew--but now, every little while, she would wake up remembering the dizzying sensation of spinning, her hands seeking out the gentle dips at Harrow’s sides.

***

“Take your clothes off,” Harrow grunted. 

Gideon stared at her under the amused quirk of her brow. The black canvas bags Harrow was carrying over her shoulders absolutely dwarfed her body, and the suitcase she was dragging behind her didn’t help. She set everything down in the bedroom and locked the door; Not that anyone would be walking in on them (it was early morning and they had already dismissed Aiglamene). “Are you at least going to take me out to dinner first?” Couldn’t help it--had to say it. 

Harrow rolled her eyes and pushed one of the bags to Gideon’s chest. “Our clothes are here. I ordered them four weeks ago. We have two sets of each.” 

Gideon set the bag back down and unclipped her robe, undoing the strap of her scabbard and the belts around her waist. “Fucking fantastic. Can’t wait to see what kind of nun-fit you’ve--wait.” She stopped, her hands froze on the zipper of her trousers. “How did you know my measurements?” 

Her necromancer stared blankly. “I reconstructed your body, Griddle. Put two and two together. I know you like I know myself.” Okay, a little terse, but a fair point. Gideon hid the heat it brought to her face by pulling her shirt up and over her head, which prompted Harrow to do the same in an effort not to stare.

They pulled their new garments on in comfortable silence and when Gideon finally looked back over, her breath died in her throat. What she wanted to say was, “You look incredible,” but what came out of her dumb, idiot mouth was a choked, “Mmf.” 

Harrow stood in the dim, warm light, an image of beautiful and terrible death, her exoskeleton discarded for the time being. She wore a black, long-sleeved tunic, the strings tied tight and neat at the neck and wrists, and the shoulders accented with intricate lace. It was tucked into slim black trousers that ended in tall black boots--really, everything on her was the exciting color of coal. Around her shoulders, however, lay a hooded cloak instead of a robe. The material reached down to her calves and it shimmered faintly here and there as she breathed, clipped with the jawless skull of the Ninth and its edges lined with a slightly lighter void. It gave the impression of a night sky if the stars only shone when you gazed from a strange angle. 

After a moment of quiet, the necromancer bit the inside of her cheek and frowned. “You’re staring, Griddle.”

Gideon blinked and found her tongue. “There’s no way in hell you picked these out yourself.” She turned to find herself in the bathroom mirror. Her outfit was a near match; they looked like they belonged to each other. The shirt she wore encircled her body comfortably in the appearance of a loose wrap, made of a fabric that would not tear easily if she stretched or twisted. Hanging off her shoulders and clipped by a silver chain that laid across her clavicles, she wore a black coat that draped down to her lower thigh. It was a soft, warm material, though no heavier than the robes she'd grown accustomed to. Short epaulettes shimmered with each movement, much like Harrow's cloak, and Gideon found the sight strangely entrancing. Dark metal buttons ran down its front, and the lightly pinched waist would carve a handsome silhouette when worn.

"I will admit," Harrow said, "that Coronabeth offered her help and I did not refuse." 

Gideon turned back around and stepped into the bedroom, wide-eyed with her mouth stuck in a lop-sided grin. _"_ _We both look hot as FUCK,"_ she said with no small measure of enthusiasm. Harrow's expression shifted from uncertainty into a quietly relieved release of tension, and Gideon couldn't resist sweeping her up into her arms as she complained. The necromancer went limp like a prey animal, as she always did--but after a moment, and to Gideon’s heart-stopping shock, wiggled until she could wrap her arms and legs around her. In the adjustment, Gideon’s hands unconsciously moved to support the smaller woman’s weight.

They remained still for a minute, Harrow pulled tightly against her with her heels digging into Gideon's lower back. It was a simple, chaste thing, the warm delight of an embrace a savoured treat between them. The cavalier's arms only tired the most infinitesimal amount, the weight upon them more akin to bird bones, and she was once again struck by how fragile Harrow really was. The Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus was a perpetually scrawny nineteen year old riddled with trauma, and without all her armor and earth-shattering constructs, she was nothing more. It made Gideon want to hold her tighter somehow, as though that were possible--perhaps in an attempt to merge together again and melt across the seams of where one began and the other ended. They'd already experienced the ultimate closeness that tangled their souls, and now seldom anything seemed to match its gravity; Although, Gideon reminded herself triumphantly, she could touch Harrow with her own body, now. Having her own body was preferable in general, actually.

Something shifted in the air. Gideon couldn't place what had happened to cause it--whether it was the minute tightening of Harrow's fingers on her trapezius, or the unconscious brush of Gideon's lips as she pressed her face into the crook of Harrow's neck, or the adjustment of her hands under the firm thighs they supported--but she could tell the moment things changed by the way Harrow's hips pressed into her abdomen with a few atom's worth more pressure than usual, and this was enough to send her brain into a concussive whirl of _holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck_ as her pulse hopscotched into an unrelenting drum. Harrow's breath came out a fraction more harshly against her neck as one of her hands moved to tangle the bright red waves of her cropped head. Then she did something absolutely terrible, completely unforgivable, and pulled far enough away for their eyes to meet in the tenebrous silence. 

This time, Gideon was the first to speak, and she found herself sounding quite like her counterpart. “Harrow?” The word came out marvelously unsteady, quiet. Their faces were an inch apart.

Harrow’s eyes widened the most miniscule amount, as though someone had shaken her out of a daze, and her breath caught in her throat. Her gaze fell to Gideon’s lips and she seemed to sway forward--then back more abruptly. Then she pushed herself out of her cav’s grasp, mumbled something to herself as she grabbed her clothes, and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

It took a second for Gideon to unfreeze and set about limply changing back into her robes, and as she did, her mind narrowed to a single point of focus: the one shred of a sentence she had heard Harrow say.

_“Wrong.”_

The word ached like a bruise, and Gideon felt strangely ashamed of herself.

When Harrow stepped back out, they stiffly returned to business as usual and Gideon locked the idea of being anything more into an impenetrable, embarrassed box in her chest.

It was a stupid idea, anyway. Clearly. Obviously. How could she not have seen? Not remembered the offended disgust that Harrow showed whenever the thought of anything more between a cavalier and necromancer was expressed? Not recalled the unclenching she’d seen in her face when Camilla assured her that Palamedes did not occupy her devotion in that way? 

It was one thing to share a bed. It was another, entirely, to bring romance into it.

Gideon decided later, in the comfortable proximity of sleep, that she would crucify the twisting in her chest if it meant keeping Harrow like this for as long as she could.

*** 

Time passed quickly after that night. The deafening roar of a shuttle consumed the landing field, and the few wakeful denizens of the Ninth gathered as they had once before to bid farewell to the Reverend Daughter and her ever loyal protector. 

There was a mind-numbing chill in the air that left their face-paint cracking in places and this time, Harrow’s face remained free of any tears that might make it run. Crux was rightfully nowhere to be seen, and Aiglamene was stood proud as ever to watch them go.

“We won’t be long,” Harrow said, though Gideon knew it was more to comfort herself than anyone around her. 

“The Ninth stood for two years in your absence, my lady,” Aiglamene said gently. “Two weeks is child’s play.” 

This brought a wet shine to Harrow’s eyes, but still nothing spilled. As they climbed into the shuttle, she turned to lean through the hatch door and spoke over the now idle hum of the engine. “When we return in two weeks’ time, the Ninth will shine with renewed purpose and dignity. We will not fade. I promise you that.” 

Gideon waved to Aiglamene, feeling a nauseating sense of deja vu, and the door closed over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally done with all the little time-skips, thank hell.


End file.
